Snowbound with you

Testing the distance

The city never felt so loud.

Emma moved through her apartment as though she were underwater, aware of every sound—the hum of her fridge, the occasional car horn, the chatter of neighbors through open windows. Yet despite the noise, there was a vacuum inside her that no amount of bustling could fill.

She had returned to work, to deadlines, to her life, but each task felt heavier now, each conversation slightly out of sync. Her thoughts kept drifting to the mountains, to the lodge, to Liam, to Noah’s quiet faith in her presence.

Her phone buzzed.

It was a message from Liam:

Did you eat yet?

A smile tugged at her lips. Simple, ordinary—but it carried everything. Care, attention, connection.

Yes. Salad. Not very exciting, she typed back.

Better than nothing, he replied. I made Noah pancakes. He said they weren’t as good as yours, but he smiled anyway.

Emma laughed quietly, pressing the phone to her chest. Even miles away, he had the ability to make her feel anchored.

But with the comfort came the ache. Distance was different now. It wasn’t just physical; it was the subtle erosion of spontaneity, the longing for touch, for reassurance, for the shared warmth of presence.

The next day was relentless. Meetings ran back-to-back, her phone constantly buzzing with work updates, reminders, and texts from friends checking on her return. She responded automatically, mechanically, all while her mind wandered to snowy evenings, to fireside talks, to Liam’s steady presence.

During lunch, she found herself staring out the window at the bustling streets below. People passed, oblivious to the quiet storm inside her. She wondered how Liam was spending his day. Was he walking with Noah? Was he thinking of her?

A new message appeared:

We’ll see each other soon. I promise.

She stared at it for a long moment, letting the words settle. A promise. Not an expectation. Not a demand. Just presence, across the miles.

But promises were fragile. And Emma knew life was about to test them.

That evening, she attended a work mixer, a networking event she couldn’t postpone any longer. People laughed, exchanged cards, and offered congratulations on recent projects. Emma moved through the room with grace, but the entire time, her mind was elsewhere.

A colleague approached. “Emma, you seem… changed. Happier?”

She smiled faintly. “I guess I’ve learned to appreciate small things,” she said, letting her thoughts wander to Liam.

Later that night, Emma stood on her balcony, phone in hand, and called him.

“Hey,” his voice came immediately.

“Hey,” she whispered.

They spoke quietly, letting the city hum around them while they shared fragments of their day. She told him about the mixer, about colleagues’ comments, about the endless emails. He listened, then shared small stories of Noah, of errands, of the quiet moments that defined their day-to-day.

Neither of them said, I miss you. Not yet.

But every word carried it.

By the time they ended the call, Emma leaned against the railing, the night air brushing her face. For the first time since returning, she realized that love didn’t vanish in the absence of closeness. Sometimes it simply shifted, demanding care, patience, and courage.

And she was willing to give it.

The following morning, Emma woke to the sound of rain tapping softly against her window. The city had shifted overnight, from the crisp clarity of winter to the grey drizzle that made streets glisten and reflections dance. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, lingering in the warmth of her bed, and thought of Liam.

How was he? Was Noah awake, or still buried under a fortress of blankets, half-asleep and stubbornly cheerful? She imagined him shuffling into the kitchen, wearing those oversized slippers, insisting on making breakfast before the world had fully woken.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, snapping her out of the daydream. It was Liam.

Morning. Did you sleep well?

As well as can be expected, she typed back. Rain. City. Too loud to rest properly.

Wish I could be there to make it quiet for you, he replied.

Emma’s chest tightened. She imagined him leaning against the window of the lodge, sunlight streaming through the glass on snowy mornings, a cup of coffee in hand, watching the world awaken in silence. The contrast was jarring, and she realized she missed him more than she had admitted to herself.

The day stretched forward in a blur. Emails, phone calls, project updates—mundane tasks that suddenly felt heavier, more pressing, because each one reminded her she was not in the mountains anymore, not with Liam, not with Noah. Even simple decisions—what to eat, which route to take to the office, which email to respond to first—felt infused with longing.

By late afternoon, she excused herself from work, unable to focus. She walked along the wet streets, coat pulled tight around her, boots splashing softly through puddles. She needed air. Space. Clarity.

Her phone buzzed again.

Lunch?

It was a message from a colleague.

Emma typed back politely but declined. The thought of socializing, of pretending everything was normal while her heart and mind were elsewhere, was exhausting. She needed time to process.

She stopped in a quiet square, under the glow of streetlamps reflecting off rain-soaked cobblestones. The city moved around her, but here, in this small pocket of calm, she allowed herself to breathe. She pulled out her phone again, this time opening Liam’s messages.

I can’t stop thinking about the last evening. About you. About Noah. About everything that felt real.

Emma exhaled slowly. He was honest, even from a distance. She typed carefully:

Me too. It’s harder than I thought, being apart.

I know.

I wish… she began, then stopped. Wishing had no power when miles stretched between them.

I wish too, he replied.

It was enough. And it wasn’t.

Over the next few days, the pattern settled into a rhythm that was at once comforting and torturous. Morning messages. Brief phone calls during lunch breaks. Small exchanges about Noah’s drawings, her work projects, and fleeting glimpses into each other’s day-to-day. But every conversation left her aching for more, for the warmth of his presence, the steadiness of his gaze, the quiet reassurance she had felt so easily in the lodge.

One evening, she found herself staring out at the rain again, phone in hand, debating whether to call him or wait. She dialed anyway.

“Hey,” he answered immediately, his voice calm, steady, like an anchor.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said after a pause. “About us. About how this distance… stretches more than I expected.”

Emma nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “I know. Every moment feels amplified. Every silence feels too long.”

“Do you regret it?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said firmly. “Not for a second. But it’s… it’s harder than I imagined. I keep imagining the mountains, the lodge, the snow, and then I’m here. And it’s real life again, and I feel… torn.”

“I feel the same,” he admitted. “Every day. And yet, knowing this isn’t the end, knowing we care enough to bridge the distance… that makes it bearable. That gives me hope.”

They stayed on the line long after the rain had softened into a drizzle, speaking of trivial things, small victories, and moments of vulnerability. Emma realized how much she needed this—to be reminded that love could endure, even when it was tested, even when life demanded patience and bravery.

Later that night, she wrote in her journal, trying to capture the weight of her emotions: the ache of distance, the hope for reunion, the fear of losing what had begun in the quiet snow. She didn’t have answers yet, but she understood that some things love, connection, trust—required not perfection, but persistence.